Worldbuilding Prompt #905 - The Sigils of Janar

Here's a post inspired by a prompt a couple of days ago in the Worldbuilding community - Worldbuilding Prompt #905 - Personalized Items

It's set in a remote corner of my Dungeons & Dragons homebrew world.

Enjoy !

Image created by AI in NightCafe Studio

Ilihona separated from the tree trunk she was pressed against, and looked around to see who was left, and if Gerhon was among the survivors. Yes ! There he was, stepping away from an oak tree, his chameleon cloak changing from the texture of bark to it's grey-brown neutral state.

All around, the ground was covered with bodies and bits of bodies, and drenched with blood. Innumerable white-fletched arrows stood up from red-soaked ground and red-uniformed corpses alike, like the quills of a porcupine.

Gerhon grinned. "We beat them ! I never thought the last of them would go down. They're tough, these Janarians."

Ilihona nodded. She didn't grin. Too many of her kinfolk lay scattered among the red-clad Janarians. There were precious few left of the Glasheim elves, against a seemingly endless tide of Janarians.

"They keep pushing and pushing us, Gerhon. We can no more hold them back than we can hold back the stormclouds of winter. But this lot were something new. Tougher, harder to hurt. It's like our arrows were being blown awry, our wood-warden's spells being dulled in some way."

Now it was Gerhon's turn to look sombre. "You're right. Let's check them over and see what we can find out."

The two slender wood elves started moving among the bodies, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Others of their company were doing likewise, recovering arrows and arrowheads, taking Janarians swords and helmets. Anything that would help supplement the Glasheim elves' depleted resources.

Suddenly Ilihona pointed. "Look... look at that."

She was indicating a small golden ornament pinned to the chest of one of the fallen enemies. It was like a badge or brooch, ornately sculpted and quite beautiful.

"They've all got one. And they're all slightly different."

Her search changed now. No longer was she looking for things to loot, or for something out of the ordinary. She'd found it. Now, she was looking for a survivor.

It didn't take her long. There, where the bodies were at their thickest, a carpet of dead Janarians so dense it was almost impossible not to step on them. At the centre still standing but at a crazy angle was their banner, a scarlet silk cloth hanging from a crossbar. It was embroidered with the image of a fire-breathing dragon in gold thread.

Beneath the banner, a mad stirred, groaning slightly. He had an arrow in his left leg, another in his right shoulder, and a final one pinning his left arm to his shield. He looked young, even by human standards. With those wounds, it was unlikely he's get any older unless a healer got to him very soon.

Kneeling next to him, Ilihona put her hand on the badge pinned to his chest as if to tear it off.

"Nooo..." the man whispered, trying to raise a blood-covered arm to try to fend her off.

"Why not ?" she demanded, "Why does it matter ? What is it to you ?"

Reaching into her belt pouch, she pulled out a small vial and tipped just a couple of drops onto the dying man's lips. A potion of healing. She hadn't given him enough to save him, just enough to buck him up for a short while.

He answered her. "It's my sigil. All of us in the 10th Division are getting them."

The answer frustrated her. It was clearly an accurate statement of truth, and it meant absolutely nothing.

"Talk to me. Tell me ! Why is your brooch.. your sigil... different to everyone else's ? Why are they all different ? You Janarians love uniformity, how can this be ?"

The soldier coughed up some blood. "They're personal. All different. It's my sigil; there are many like it, but this one's mine. We work with the regimental mages, one by one, and craft our own personalised designs."

Ilihona restrained herself. She felt like slapping the man. He was slipping his guts to her, and it still made no sense.

"Look, just tell me what they do. Why do they have to be personalised ?"

The man grinned through bloodied teeth. "Like I told you, you elvish witch, they're personalised. They tap into whatever innate magic each one of us might have, even if it's so little that we could never cast a spell. On their own, they do little. But when we stand as a company, their power combines and multiplies to protect us. They blunt your spells and blow your arrows away."

Coughing again, the wounded man laughed slightly. "When every Janarian soldier has a sigil, we'll drive what's left of your elf kingdom north, all the way back to the Icey Wastes. I wish I could be there to see it."

Reaching up, the soldier grasped the arrow in his shoulder and pulled it free, groaning one last time as the barb tore his flesh. Blood gushed from the unblocked wound. He sighed quietly and dies with a slight smile on his face.

From behind Ilihona, Gerhon spoke. "These Janarians are tough. And crazy, if this boy is a fair representative. If we don't get proper help we'll never win our kingdom back."

An excerpt from my world map, created in Wonderdraft